Don’t ask me what I’ve been doing. You don’t want to know. Let’s just say that all work and no play make Jack a dull boy. And by Jack I mean me. I’ve barely come up for air!
And while the cat’s been away, buried knee deep in paperwork, there’s a certain Maltipoo orphan lad who’s been redecorating my house in a style only a dog can love. As a result, what was once decorated in a style that is best referred to as “kitschy kitsch,” is now, how shall I describe it? Oh yes, ode to tennis ball.
These tennis balls are everywhere and you could say, they’re taking over my life!
You see, tennis balls are nirvana to both my dogs but even more so to young Oliver Twist, the orphaned Maltipoo. My house has become a haven for lost–and found–tennis balls. It’s no exaggeration to say that these little green balls are running a muck in my house. They’re in every nook and cranny and, if you ask me, they are hazardous to my health. It’s an accident waiting to happen, my friend.
I swear if I didn’t know any better I’d think Oliver was trying to do me in. I find tennis balls on the stairs, in the middle of the hall, on my bedroom floor. They miraculously multiply on their own! One false move, one late night trip to the kitchen or bathroom, and I’m a step away from calling it curtains.
There are tennis balls in the kitchen, in the bathroom, on the couch, behind every door and even on my bed. Is nothing sacred? Sigh.
And I thought Henry, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who descends from royalty, was obsessed with tennis balls. Oliver has His Royal Highness beat, 10 times over.
I take the fellas to the park and I bring two tennis balls, presumably one for each. I throw the first ball. Fleet-of-foot Oliver chases it. I throw the second ball, Henry starts for it, but Oliver overtakes him and catches it. Somehow Oliver ends up with both balls and Henry gets bupkis.
Henry finds a ball in the bushes and carries it jauntily and firmly in his mouth. I look away for a moment, to photograph some flowers and when I turn back, said ball is firmly planted in Oliver’s mouth. How does he do it? It’s the best magic trick performed by any dog!
Don’t think I haven’t tried to rid the house of tennis balls or tucked them away in the garage or whatnot. Frankly, it’s a lost cause. For Oliver must be a hound dog at heart. He can sniff out any ball within a ten-mile radius. Hiding them does no good. Putting them in the garage buried in a box of old, dirty rags, is a hopeless feat. He sniffs them out and whines until you pull the darn things out.
So I figure if you can’t fight ’em, might as well throw in the towel. Tennis balls are here to stay.
Which is why I’ve decided to buy a sofa for my living room made of, what else? Tennis balls! That will make at least one resident of this humble abode one very happy camper. Maybe two if you count Henry, though Henry’s looking at me right now and I can tell he’s a bit skeptical.
So anyone know where I can get such a couch? All I can say is it better be a comfy one!